Classical Explorations — October 2026

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Igor Stravinsky
Symphonies of Wind Instruments, K. 036 (1920 version)
Few composers enjoyed a career as glittering, varied and influential as Igor Stravinsky. From The Firebird and The Rite of Spring to his neoclassical and later serial works, his musical imagination seemed almost limitless. Yet throughout his career, Stravinsky demonstrated an instinctive understanding of how to write idiomatically, imaginatively and often quite beautifully for wind instruments. His Symphonies of Wind Instruments, composed in 1920, is one of the great masterpieces of the wind repertoire. Written in memory of Claude Debussy, who died in 1918, the work unfolds through contrasting instrumental colours, rhythmic gestures and chorale-like passages, culminating in a deeply moving musical tribute. It was first performed in London in 1921 under Serge Koussevitzky. Stravinsky subsequently revised the score in 1947, simplifying aspects of the instrumentation and reworking passages of the music. This recording returns to the original 1920 version, with its particularly distinctive palette of wind colours. And what a performance! The Nash Ensemble under Sir Simon Rattle delivers wind playing of the very highest order. The precision, balance, character and sheer beauty of the individual instrumental voices are extraordinary. Every phrase seems perfectly considered, yet nothing feels mechanical. For me, this is wind ensemble playing at its absolute apex – a superb performance of a remarkable piece, and a reminder of just how expressive an orchestra of wind instruments can be.

Arnold Bax
Tintagel, GP 213
I have long felt that Bax is one of the great, and perhaps rather forgotten, voices of British music. His writing is extraordinarily descriptive, richly coloured and deeply emotive. There is often something almost cinematic about his music, a sense that the orchestra is telling a story, painting a landscape or conjuring an atmosphere without the need for a single word. Tintagel, inspired by the dramatic Cornish coastline and its legendary associations with King Arthur, is a magnificent example. Composed in 1917, it is music brimming with imagery – from the grandeur of the cliffs and the restless movement of the sea to passages of extraordinary tenderness and mystery. This superb recording, released in March 2026, features the London Symphony Orchestra under Sir Antonio Pappano. What strikes me is the sheer quality of the orchestral playing. There is a wonderful cinematic breadth to the sound, with glorious strings, beautifully characterised wind solos and brass playing of real authority. The LSO captures both the sweeping grandeur and the intimate detail of Bax’s musical landscape. For me, this is music that deserves a far more prominent place in our orchestral repertoire. Tintagel stands comfortably alongside some of the great symphonic poems, and this performance makes a compelling case for its enduring brilliance.

Ralph Vaughan Williams
Symphony No. 3, ‘A Pastoral Symphony’: IV. Lento
For my money, Vaughan Williams is the greatest symphonist this country has ever produced. I know that is fighting talk, and I warmly invite anyone wishing to debate the matter to join me for a coffee or a beer. My contact details are on my website! I absolutely adore his music. There is something profoundly human about his musical language – the long arched melodies, the subtle shifts of harmony and those extraordinary orchestral colours. I am particularly drawn to the silvery quality of his writing, where a high flute might blend almost imperceptibly with the strings. These are sounds I recognise in the work of great film composers such as John Williams, yet Vaughan Williams achieves them with such remarkable economy and sensitivity. I have deliberately included this movement as we approach November and the season of Remembrance. Vaughan Williams’s Third Symphony is often misunderstood. Conceived during and after his service in the First World War, it is not simply a portrait of the English countryside, but a deeply personal response to the landscapes and human suffering he encountered in France. The wordless soprano in this final movement is especially haunting – a distant, almost disembodied voice that seems to carry the sorrow of an entire generation. As we prepare to remember those who lost their lives in conflict, I can think of few pieces of music that express such profound reflection with so little outward display. Aaron Copland is often quoted as comparing a Vaughan Williams symphony to staring at a cow for forty-five minutes. I rather suspect he missed the point! This music is not about grand gestures or constant excitement. It is painted in the most delicate watercolours, and it asks us to bring something of ourselves to the listening experience. But don't mistake subtlety for a lack of substance. Explore the later symphonies and you will find grit, bite, anger and tremendous dramatic power. If you love melody, song, richly coloured harmony and music that speaks directly to the human condition, I cannot recommend Vaughan Williams highly enough. Here, Richard Hickox and the London Symphony Orchestra, with soprano Rebecca Evans, capture that extraordinary sense of stillness and longing. And I really would love to hear what others think. Britain's greatest symphonist? I'm happy to defend my corner!

Antonio Vivaldi
Bassoon Concerto in F major
Vivaldi was one of the great innovators of the Baroque concerto, writing hundreds of works for solo instruments, including an astonishing number for the bassoon. His music is bursting with rhythmic vitality, invention and an almost irrepressible sense of energy. But it is the playing of Sophie Dervaux that makes this recording so special. Since 2015, she has been principal bassoonist of the Vienna Philharmonic and Vienna State Opera Orchestra, having previously held the position of principal contrabassoonist with the Berlin Philharmonic. That is quite an extraordinary musical pedigree, and the quality of her playing here speaks for itself. The clarity is simply impeccable. Every note is beautifully articulated, every phrase shaped with intelligence, and there is a wonderfully clean, crisp quality to her sound without ever sacrificing warmth or character. Even in the most rapid passages, nothing feels hurried or untidy. There is fire, certainly, but also tremendous elegance and control. Dervaux finds a particularly satisfying balance between the rhythmic vitality of Vivaldi's writing and the natural lyricism of the bassoon.

Richard Bartmuß
10 Charakterstücke, Op. 36 – No. 1, Präludium in D minor
I love finding out about composers who have largely disappeared from the concert repertoire. Richard Bartmuß (pronounced “Bart-mooss” I'm told!) is a particularly intriguing example. Born in Schleesen, Germany, in 1859, he belonged to a generation of organist-composers who carried the German Romantic tradition of Mendelssohn and Rheinberger into the twentieth century. Having studied in Berlin, Bartmuß established himself as an organist in Dessau, where he became a highly respected church musician and improviser. His Zehn Charakterstücke (Ten Character Pieces) offer a fascinating introduction to his musical personality. The opening Präludium in D minor has a wonderfully expansive sound, recorded here on the Schuke–Späth organ in the magnificent Marktkirche St. Cosmas und Damian in Goslar, Germany. Full details of the recording can be seen in the liner notes>>

Steven Osborne
Improvisation on Keith Jarrett’s Vienna Concert
I have long admired the playing of Scottish pianist Steven Osborne, but this extraordinary little piece really stopped me in my tracks. There is something so profoundly soulful and beautiful about it – music of remarkable tenderness, sensitivity and emotional honesty. The inspiration comes from Keith Jarrett, one of the great improvising pianists of our time. Jarrett occupies a fascinating world between jazz and classical music, renowned for his extraordinary ability to create entire concerts spontaneously at the keyboard. His celebrated Vienna Concert, recorded in 1991, is a great example of his talent. What I particularly love here is the artistic connection. One musician's spontaneous invention, captured in a recording more than thirty years ago, becomes the inspiration for another pianist's creativity. There is something rather beautiful about that idea – music born in a fleeting moment finding a new voice decades later. Osborne's playing is exquisite. Every phrase feels deeply considered, yet the music retains a wonderful sense of freedom and spontaneity. It is intimate, reflective and utterly captivating. Sometimes the quietest musical discoveries leave the deepest impression. This is certainly one of them.

Danny Elfman
Cello Concerto – III. Meditazione
Back in April 2024, I featured Danny Elfman's Percussion Concerto, performed by Colin Currie and the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra. I was struck then by just how naturally this celebrated film composer had turned his hand to the concert hall. Best known for everything from The Simpsons to Spider-Man, Elfman has an extraordinary gift for orchestral colour and dramatic expression. Now we move from Liverpool to London, with his Cello Concerto performed by Gautier Capuçon and the BBC Concert Orchestra under Lionel Bringuier. This third movement, Meditazione, inhabits a very different musical world. Capuçon's impassioned cello line is dark, brooding and intensely expressive. The phrases are extended, far-reaching and constantly searching, as though the music is struggling to find some kind of resolution. What particularly impresses me is the way Capuçon manages the enormous surges in dynamics – everything unfolds so organically, so smoothly and with such extraordinary beauty. Elfman's chromatic writing demands careful musical direction, particularly in balancing the soloist's expressive freedom with the shifting orchestral textures. Bringuier and the BBC Concert Orchestra provide exactly that, allowing the music to breathe while maintaining its underlying tension. There is something wonderfully cinematic about this music, certainly, but it also stands entirely on its own as a deeply affecting piece of concert music.

Benjamin de Murashkin
The Dreaming – III. Gathering Storms
Benjamin de Murashkin is a composer entirely new to me, but on the strength of The Dreaming, I shall certainly be exploring more of his music. A Danish composer raised in Australia, he studied composition at the University of Melbourne and the Royal Danish Academy of Music, and previously served as Copenhagen Phil’s composer in residence. His output spans orchestral, chamber, choral and film music, combining classical traditions with contemporary popular influences. The use of the instruments is rather wonderful, drawing out what feel like new voices, all bound together by a clear dramatic purpose. Much like the Danny Elfman concerto featured earlier in this playlist, the music makes particularly imaginative use of dynamic contrast, bringing extraordinary colour and character to the instrumental writing. The Intercontinental Ensemble is superb and fully committed to this music. The playing is exceptionally tight, with beautifully coordinated attacks and a real understanding of how to shape its dramatic contours. What impresses me most is the sheer range of dynamics, giving even the smallest gestures a remarkable sense of expression. This is exciting, colourful music, performed with conviction and precision – an excellent introduction to a composer I knew nothing about until now.

César Cui
25 Preludes, Op. 64: No. 2 – arranged for string orchestra by Pavel Lyubomudrov
César Cui is one of the more curious characters in Russian musical history. A member of The Five, alongside Balakirev, Borodin, Mussorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakov, he was not only a composer and influential music critic but also a military engineer and an expert in fortifications. Quite an extraordinary combination of professions! Although his name is familiar to anyone interested in nineteenth-century Russian music, his compositions are heard far less frequently than those of his celebrated colleagues. This delightful miniature, originally written for piano as part of his 25 Preludes, Op. 64, makes a wonderful case for exploring his music more closely. Released in October 2026, this beautiful arrangement for string orchestra by Pavel Lyubomudrov immediately caught my attention. There is such warmth and generosity in the sound, with the Metamorphose String Orchestra producing the most gorgeous, inviting string textures. The music unfolds with a natural, unhurried elegance, and Lyubomudrov's arrangement allows its lyrical qualities to blossom. A beautiful little piece, sensitively arranged and performed by an ensemble whose sound I like a lot!

Sergei Rachmaninoff
5 Morceaux de fantaisie, Op. 3: III. Mélodie
There is something so effortlessly beautiful about Rachmaninoff's piano writing. We often associate him with sweeping romantic gestures and enormous virtuosity, yet here, in this exquisite little Mélodie, we encounter a composer capable of the most delicate musical expression. Written in 1892, when Rachmaninoff was still a teenager, the piece is wonderfully poetic. The melodies seem to rise almost imperceptibly out of the accompanying texture, emerging with such gentleness that it is sometimes difficult to distinguish where the accompaniment ends and the melody begins. It is a beautiful example of his instinctive gift for lyrical writing. Japanese pianist Mao Fujita brings tremendous sensitivity to this music. His touch is wonderfully refined, allowing the melodic lines to sing without ever overwhelming the delicate harmonies beneath them. There is an intimacy and naturalness to his playing that I find particularly affecting. A few minutes of pure musical poetry.

Béla Bartók
The Wooden Prince – Prelude
Welcome to the extraordinary imaginary world of Béla Bartók, where enchanted forests, magical streams and mysterious characters await the adventurous listener. Our destination is The Wooden Prince, a fantastical ballet composed between 1914 and 1916, in which a prince, a princess and a mischievous fairy become entangled in a wonderfully strange tale of love, deception and enchantment. But before our story begins, Bartók invites us into his landscape. The Prelude unfolds from a mysterious orchestral haze to a roar in just a few minutes. It is music that seems to breathe and grow organically, gradually drawing us deeper into Bartók's imagination. Our guides on this particular journey are Edward Gardner and the London Philharmonic Orchestra, who bring this magical landscape vividly to life. At just under an hour, the entire ballet is well worth hearing, especially if you associate Bartók primarily with angular rhythms and uncompromising modernism. This is music of extraordinary imagination, painting an enchanted world in some of the most evocative orchestral colours imaginable. A journey well worth taking – and we've barely ventured beyond the opening scene!

Huw Watkins
Concerto for Orchestra – III
Back in April 2024, I featured the slow movement from Huw Watkins's First Piano Trio, praising his distinctive harmonic language and the wonderfully communicative interplay between the musicians. I have followed Huw's music for quite some time, and his Concerto for Orchestra is another compelling example of why I find his writing so interesting. The concerto is a wonderful vehicle for exploring the possibilities of the modern symphony orchestra. In this final movement, Watkins's bold harmonic imagination is matched by a tremendous sense of rhythmic energy and instrumental colour. There is an engaging conversation between the different sections of the orchestra, with musical ideas passed around, developed and transformed. The Hallé under Sir Mark Elder is particularly impressive. The clarity of the ensemble allows the detail of Watkins's orchestration to emerge, while the playing has the confidence and vitality that music of this complexity demands. What I particularly admire about Watkins is that his music has a recognisable identity. His harmonic language is contemporary and individual, yet there is always a strong sense of musical direction and expression. A thoroughly engaging conclusion to a concerto that deserves to be heard more widely.

Mikhail Pletnev
Rachmaniniana – Landscape and Hungarian Dance
Whenever Mikhail Pletnev appears in London, my interest is immediately piqued. He is one of those extraordinary all-round musicians – pianist, conductor, composer and arranger – whose artistry I have admired for many years. I remember hearing him conduct the Philharmonia Orchestra in Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition some years ago. His gestures were remarkably precise, almost impossibly small, yet the orchestra responded to every movement. Then came The Great Gate of Kiev. Something seemed to roar from within him, and the relationship between conductor and orchestra became utterly electrifying. It was one of those experiences that reminded me just how extraordinary the connection between musicians and a conductor can be. Pletnev's pianism is equally remarkable. I have some wonderful archive recordings of him performing Brahms's clarinet sonatas with Michael Collins, whom I featured in last month's Classical Explorations and who also brings us full circle to the Nash Ensemble's Stravinsky at the beginning of this edition. Here, Pletnev conducts the Rachmaninoff International Orchestra in his own Rachmaniniana, a suite inspired by the musical world of Sergei Rachmaninoff. I'm including two of my favourite movements, the Landscape and Hungarian Dance, although I would thoroughly recommend listening to the whole suite. It is tremendous fun! There is plenty of Russian fire in this music, alongside sweeping gestures, rich orchestral colours and an unmistakable sense of drama. And yes, you can hear Pletnev grunting away in the recording! Some listeners might find that distracting, but it doesn't bother me in the slightest. Quite the opposite, in fact. It gives the performance something wonderfully rustic, offbeat and thoroughly authentic. I rather enjoy hearing the musician so completely immersed in the music. There is something gloriously human about it, and I wouldn't change a thing. And what better way to conclude October's explorations? A remarkable musician, a magnificent orchestral sound and a final burst of Russian fire!